


Master of Fear (MF)

by stuckoncloud9



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Enemies, M/M, Slow Burn, enemies to friends to enemies to friends to enemies to lovers, kind of. i mean depending on the continuity they both attend Gotham U anyway, or like
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27297565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckoncloud9/pseuds/stuckoncloud9
Summary: Jonathan Crane has very specific goals in life, and he's not about to let any wealthy, irritating roadblocks get in his way.
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 33
Kudos: 33





	1. Last Wayne Standing

Jonathan Crane had been looking forward to taking Dr. Bramowitz’s Cognitive Neuroscience class. Bramowitz and his research on the human fear response had been one of Jonathan’s main reasons for attending the graduate program at Gotham University in the first place. When he’d discovered that only six other grad students were enrolled in the class, he’d been even more excited — Jonathan had always found his peers exhausting, though to their credit, he found almost all of the students at Gotham U to be slightly more of an exception than those he’d known back in Georgia.

“What this indicates is that whole body expressions of emotion automatically calls for attention from bystanders and triggers an adaptive res—” Bramowitz paused mid sentence, his eyes flickering from his slides to the back of the classroom. “Yes, Br— ah, Mister... um. Yes?”

_ Almost  _ all.

The student sitting alone in the back row lowered his hand. “But the speed of processing we read about in the Meeren article isn’t generalizable to  _ all  _ whole body expressions,” he said. “Just expressions that represent a threat to the viewer.”

“Well, that’s... certainly one of the presented theories,” Bramowitz replied. “But the study—”

“Fear having the most rapid possible speed of processing and dorsal stream activation,” the student interrupted. It was impossible to fully gauge his expression underneath the dark sunglasses he always wore to class, but the way he was leaning forward indicated a strong level of interest. “People respond the fastest to seeing someone else’s fear.”

Bramowitz made a small frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “Again, though that’s a  _ potential _ interpretation of the results of the study, it’s not proved in the Meeren article. They also theorize that witnessing anger could elicit enhanced activation in the temporal cortex just as quickly.”

The student frowned, leaning back in his chair.

“Er, but it’s a very possible potential interpretation!” Bramowitz said quickly. “A very insightful reading of the text, certainly.”

The student crossed his arms. “Mmm.”

Jonathan ground the tip of his pencil into his notebook as Bramowitz continued his lecture, considerably less coherently than he had been before the interruption. It snapped off as he turned to sneak another glance at the student in the back row. 

_ Every _ time Jonathan saw a way to turn the discussion towards his primary interest of fear, this giant hungover frat boy would beat him to the punch and turn the professor off of the topic entirely. Jonathan was almost certain he was hungover, anyway. He took notes with pen and paper, which made it seem unlikely that he was blind, and Jonathan couldn’t think of a lot of other explanations for why someone would continuously wear sunglasses indoors like a complete asshole.

He supposed that being a complete asshole could be an explanation all its own, but there were other factors that made Jonathan skeptical of the other student. For one, Jonathan had never seen him in another class, even though most of the courses in the psychology grad program were all filled by the same pool of students. Even more oddly, despite how frequently he interrupted the class, Bramowitz had still never referred to him by a name — which seemed out of character, given the professor’s typically personal approach. 

Jonathan startled back to attention as he realized the students behind him were getting up. Had class ended already? He’d completely missed the end of the lecture. He turned to glare at the object of his distraction, but the interrupter had already sailed out the door.

That was it, Jonathan decided. He didn’t have another class until six; he was getting to the bottom of this mystery, today. 

Shoving his notebook in his bag, he drew it over his shoulder and rushed for the exit. It was easy to spot his target amongst the crowd of students leaving the building; the mystery student was tall enough to tower over most of the hallway, and in his plain black t-shirt it was obvious that he had considerably more muscle than most of the inhabitants of the science building. 

The early October sun glared down on Jonathan as he exited the building, forcing him into a squint. His target didn’t appear to be walking towards the parking lot, which was promising. Jonathan followed him as he walked across campus, moving deceptively fast for someone whose demeanor seemed so casual.

Eventually Jonathan realized that they were heading to the Rec Center, a large facility that he personally thought used far too much of his tuition dollars in comparison to the more academically focused campus installations. That wasn’t much of a shock. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the mystery student was something of an athlete. Two of Jonathan’s more vapid classmates had certainly surmised as much; he’d overheard them giggling an assessment along those lines on a September day warm enough for their object of fascination to be wearing an unnecessarily tight t-shirt, showing off his developed musculature.

Today he was wearing a nondescript grey hoodie, which he shrugged off as he entered the building. Jonathan trailed after him, slipping into the Rec Center while staying a good fifteen feet behind. The student employee sitting at the entrance desk gestured for his ID, barely glancing up from his desktop computer as Jonathan’s classmate made his way over to the turnstile.

The double-take the employee made upon seeing said ID only made Jonathan’s curiosity burn all the harder. The entrance monitor’s jaw dropped, clearly intending to say _something_ , but his mouth snapped shut in reaction to whatever expression had crossed the mystery student’s face. Wordlessly, the employee pressed the button to unlock the turnstile, and he took back his ID and slipped through, heading in a direction that a sign declared led to the locker rooms.

Jonathan paused for a moment, lingering by the door and trying to look busy, before walking up to the entrance desk himself. The student employee seemed surprised to see him too, though in a way that indicated less shock at his identity and more shock that someone who looked like him would come to a gym, which was more than a little insulting. Jonathan  _ did  _ work out. It just so happened that his exercise routine was a blend of dancing and the Fujian White Crane style of kung fu, not something  _ plebeian _ like lifting weights. And also that he would rather die than practice it in a place as public as the Rec Center. 

“ID?” the employee asked, still looking considerably more amused than he had any right to be. 

Jonathan fished the card out of his pocket, glancing meaningfully up and over the employee’s shoulder. “Who was that?” he asked, handing over his ID.

“Oh, I, um... I probably shouldn’t say,” the entrance monitor said awkwardly, tension replacing his amusement as he unlocked the turnstile. “I mean, you know. Privacy and all.”

“Of course,” Jonathan said smoothly. “That’s probably a good call, for your sake. He looks pretty furious already.”

The employee’s eyes widened before he snapped his head around to look in the direction Jonathan had been pointing. Jonathan took the opportunity to grab a ring of keys sitting next to the keyboard on the desk, then slipped through the turnstile. 

“I don’t see—” Jonathan could hear from behind him as he made his way down the hallway, long legs carrying him quickly despite his forced casual air. 

The mystery student was still in the locker room as Jonathan entered; his messenger bag had been set down on a bench, and he had one of the gym lockers opened in front of him as he changed clothes. Jonathan sat down on an opposite bench, trying not to seem like he was watching as his classmate pulled a t-shirt over what even he had to admit was an astonishing set of abdominal muscles. 

Jonathan unzipped his backpack, attempting to seem as if he were looking for something. It wasn’t hard; he had a considerable amount of papers stuffed inside, so carefully shuffling through them was genuinely complicated and time consuming. He almost wished he was wearing sunglasses himself as he attempted to stealthily examine the man in front of him — Jonathan had to look away whenever he turned or reached into his bag, but even the limited observation was interesting. 

His classmate had no illuminating tattoos, but did have a few fascinating scars. Nothing serious and mostly faded, but nonetheless indicative of more interesting extracurricular activities than simple weightlifting. A few bruises on his back hinted that whatever behavior had caused the scarring wasn’t all in the past, either. 

After a brief stretch, the mystery student grabbed a black water bottle from his bag, setting the rest of his belongings in his locker. Jonathan kept his head down as his classmate walked past him and out of the locker room. He waited for a minute after he heard the heavy door swing shut before getting up and pulling out the ring of keys he’d stolen from the entrance monitor. 

It took a few tries, but eventually Jonathan found the locker room master key. Eager, he pulled open the metal door and started examining its contents. 

The messenger bag didn’t hold much. A laptop, expensive and password protected; a box of writing implements, pencils all sharpened to a perfect point; a composition book, filled with carefully labeled and highlighted class notes written in a script so neat it could have been made with a typewriter. 

The clothes Jonathan had watched him remove were there too, mostly uninteresting save for the expensive leather wallet tucked into the pocket of the gray hooded sweatshirt. Jonathan couldn’t help grinning as he opened it, eyes immediately dropping to the name printed on the ID visible through the clear plastic sleeve. 

_ Bruce Wayne _ .

Fascinating. Jonathan rifled through the rest of the wallet; several credit cards, identifications of membership for a variety of clubs, dojos, and businesses across the greater Gotham area, and $380 in twenty dollar bills, which just seemed unnecessary. 

He briefly considered taking some of the money, but based on the obsessive organization of the class notes he’d flipped through (combined with the unsettling realization that all thirty three membership cards were perfectly alphabetized), it seemed likely that the wallet’s owner would immediately recognize if even a single bill was missing. 

Reluctantly, he put the wallet and the rest of the pilfered belongings back in the locker from which he’d removed them. Slipping the key ring back in his pocket, he walked out of the locker room in search of one Bruce Wayne.

He wasn’t that difficult to find. As Jonathan had initially guessed, Wayne had made his way to the open floor of the weight room. Jonathan took a seat on the stairwell that led up to the basketball courts — it didn’t appear to be very busy, and it was high enough above the weightlifting area that Wayne was unlikely to look up in his direction. 

Once he was settled, he pulled out a pen and one of his own notebooks. The one set aside for personal use, not his classes, though he did briefly debate whether this would fit better in his notes for Dr. Bramowitz’s class. It would have been significantly easier on Jonathan if he had been able to stalk Wayne to one of the university libraries instead, but he had always prided himself on being adaptable. 

There wasn’t much he knew about Bruce Wayne, unfortunately. He was a recent transplant to Gotham, so the ins and outs of Gothamite celebrity culture was still a mystery to him (and hopefully would continue to be, no matter how long he lived there). 

He  _ did  _ attend Gotham University, however, so it was inevitable that the name Wayne would come to his attention. Depending on where you were on campus, it could be plastered on every other building in sight. Looking at the dates of establishment carved into the stonework, it appeared as if entire colleges sprung into being every few decades to match the whims of the current generation of Waynes. More than that, a significant number of students were there on Wayne Foundation scholarships — he knew that much of the underclassmen were former attendees of Gotham high schools who’d taken advantage of the foundation’s financial encouragement of city residents to get a higher education in their hometown, and even Jonathan himself had received a bonus from the Wayne foundation for coming to a Gotham U graduate program from out of state. 

The reasoning behind the financial aid was transparent enough: to keep younger generations of Gothamites from leaving for calmer seas, and to summon young professionals to Gotham from elsewhere. Both were presumably necessary in order to stifle the bleeding out of Gotham’s population, a statistical certainty created by the masses who either fled the city or died every year, thanks to Gotham’s unusually high crime rate. Jonathan had found that those determined to be permanent residents of Gotham were another breed entirely from the people he knew growing up; sturdier, superstitious, and stubborn beyond belief. Scaring someone from his hometown was fun — scaring a Gothamite was an accomplishment. 

He assumed that the Waynes must have been similar folk, given that they’d had centuries of opportunity to leave for greener pastures and had instead dug in their feet and built a school in a cesspool. The years of living in Gotham had clearly taken their toll, however. What had obviously once been a wide and varied family tree had been whittled down into almost nothing — to Jonathan’s knowledge, Bruce was the only remaining Wayne alive. 

His parents had died in some incident of the kind of violent crime that was almost boringly typical in Gotham, Jonathan was fairly sure. He’d seen a speech on the topic last year, at the opening of a new building for the university’s Division of Psychiatry and Behavioral Medicine. There had even been a brief appearance of Bruce himself, not that Jonathan would have ever recognized the young man in the crisp suit and tie as the student below him lifting weights in basketball shorts. 

What Jonathan couldn’t understand is why Bruce Wayne would be in a grad level psychology course. He knew the heir was attending Gotham University — that fact had also been mentioned in the speech he attended, with eye-rolling amounts of pride from the dean. But the context was that Bruce had enrolled  _ that semester _ , meaning he had reached his sophomore year of undergrad at the most. If Jonathan remembered correctly it had also been stated that Bruce was in school for a Masters in Business Administration, a degree that presumably did not require students to take classes in Cognitive Neuroscience. 

Jonathan stared down at the last Wayne through the bars of the stairway railing, tapping the end of his pen against his lips in concentration. Whatever had inspired Bruce to spend his Tuesday and Thursday mornings irritating Jonathan in a class he had no right to be taking, he clearly didn’t want anybody to know about it. The sunglasses, as well as the fact that Dr. Bramowitz had clearly been pressured against referring to him by name, indicated that Bruce was trying to stay incognito. 

It would make sense if he simply didn’t want his education to be interrupted by his celebrity, but it wasn’t as if Bruce did this for all his courses. Even though Jonathan rarely talked to his fellow students outside of class, he’d still heard the stories about the Wayne heir falling asleep in Managerial Finance, or arriving a full thirty minutes late to Marketing Ethics covered in lipstick stains. What was so embarrassing about an upper level psychology course that Bruce had to hide behind a pair of shades, when he was willing to stand in front of crowds of reporters with clearly visible hickeys?

Maybe it was some kind of power play, forcing himself into a place he didn’t belong just because his resources enabled him to. It could have been a grudge against the professor, but Bramowitz was so unnecessarily accommodating in personality that Jonathan doubted he was capable of catching the attention (much less ire) of someone in the upper echelons of Gotham society. 

Whatever his reason was, it was annoying, and Jonathan was overjoyed to have potentially found a way to end Bruce Wayne’s involvement in his life. If it was that important to him that nobody knew he was taking the class, then presumably he would  _ stop  _ taking the class if Jonathan made it clear he could no longer do so incognito. Also — if Jonathan was going to be completely honest with himself — he was incredibly curious about what would make someone like Bruce Wayne afraid to show his face. 

And there was really only one way to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted this fic's initial publish date to be on Halloween, since Scarecrow definitely deserves love on this spookiest of holidays. My beta reader assured me that the title totally worked as a joke about Master's Degrees, so I'm taking their word for it.
> 
> Edit 2/3/21: I just realized that I never sourced the article I drew the early discussion of adaptive emotional response from. I'm pretty sure what I was using was "Early Preferential Responses to Fear Stimuli in Human Right Dorsal Visual Stream" from the April 2016 issue of Scientific Reports, from authors Hanneke Meeren, Nouchine Hadjikhani, Seppo P. Ahlfors, Matti S. Hämäläinen, and Beatrice de Gelder.


	2. Adaptive Response

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @tobaitfishwithhal on Tumblr for reminding me to re-open my outline for this fic (and also for drawing cute scarebat content that has me thinking about these two on the regular)!

Jonathan’s anticipation had well turned to boredom by the time Bruce finally finished his workout routine. If the gym hadn’t been so poorly populated in the prime of the school day, Jonathan would have assumed Wayne was showing off for the masses. He stopped clicking his pen as Bruce finally got off the treadmill where he’d been running for the past twenty minutes, watching as the young man grabbed one of the disposable sanitary wipes from the nearby dispenser to completely clean the machine’s railings and controls.

The rational part of Jonathan felt a twinge of regret as Bruce made his way back to the locker room, ending the possibility of just leaving a vaguely threatening note on top of the Wayne heir’s clothes and being done with it. A conversation with him might be illuminating, but could easily lead to unnecessary complications, given the vast amount of resources available to Bruce if he decided he didn’t appreciate the intrusion.

But Jonathan couldn’t help but be intrigued by the intimidating idea of directly confronting someone like Bruce Wayne. If it went poorly, he had ways of defending himself. And if he was the one instigating a conversation, he could stack the circumstances in his favor. A public space would be ideal, but somewhere liminal where the surrounding people would be too distracted to overhear their words unless there was untoward escalation. 

Bruce emerged from the locker rooms with wet hair, as well as a black turtleneck sweater that hadn’t been his attire in Jonathan’s class earlier that morning. That seemed promising; if he was going to one of his Business Administration courses, then Jonathan could simply bump into him outside of his classroom and pretend to recognize him from class. 

He continued to trail Bruce as he left the building, once again staying about thirty feet behind so as not to be noticed. He carefully and casually dropped the key ring he’d stolen on the way in on the ground near the entrance desk. Given that the student employee didn’t seem to have noticed its absence yet, Jonathan was hopeful that the idiot would just assume that he pushed it off the counter. 

The midday sun forced Jonathan to squint as he exited the recreation center, trying to catch which building Bruce was walking to. He was surprised to realize that Bruce had gone to the bus stop instead, despite the proximity of the Stagg College of Business. Maybe he was meeting someone downtown instead?

Jonathan considered his options as the number fifty bus pulled into the circle outside the recreation center. He could just wait until after Bramowitz’s next class, but the idea of confronting Bruce in his hungover frat boy disguise was far less attractive than confronting him now, when he was dressed like himself and his guard was down. And there were few places less liminal than public transportation.

His decision was made by the time he watched Bruce step onto the vehicle. He ran forward, giving up the forced distance between him and his quarry. He made it to the door just as Bruce was paying the bus driver. He didn’t glance back at Jonathan after finishing the transaction, just returned his wallet to his pocket and made his way to the back of the vehicle.

The driver gestured for Jonathan to step up, so he pulled his school I.D. out of his coat. Gotham University — or rather, its various benefactors — paid the Gotham Transportation Authority a static fee every year to cover transport costs for students. Yet another financial incentive to encourage young adults to move to an otherwise undesirable city. But for Bruce Wayne, Jonathan supposed, it was actually more convenient to pay the bus fee than to show anyone the school I.D. with his name. 

The bus driver nodded at Jonathan’s identification, waving him onto the bus without payment. Jonathan turned to see Bruce sitting in the middle of the aisle in the very back row; he froze for a second before realizing the Wayne heir was probably not staring directly at him, just examining the electronic display over his head. 

Annoyed at the moment of pointless alarm, Jonathan pushed forward through the aisles. Bruce’s attention stayed diverted as he approached, even as Jonathan came to sit down in his row. Had someone sat down next to Jonathan when the bus had this many seats empty, he would have got up and moved. 

Bruce stayed stationary, however. He didn’t so much as glance over as the seat next to him was taken. As Jonathan pulled his backpack onto his lap, he realized that Bruce wasn’t moving at all. When Jonathan was sitting down, he usually tapped his foot, or drummed his fingers on his knees. Something. But Bruce was utterly still. 

Or maybe not utterly, Jonathan realized as he leaned back in the seat. At this distance, from this position, he could just barely see Bruce’s eyes behind the frame of his sunglasses. There was motion in the pale blue irises, which moved back and forth almost imperceptibly. Apparently Bruce really was watching the words scroll across the screen at the front of the bus. 

Jonathan cleared his throat as the bus pulled away from the curb. Bruce turned his head expectantly, eyes once again disappearing behind the black of the mirrored lenses.

“You’re Bruce Wayne, aren’t you?” Jonathan asked, as if this were in question. He spoke quietly enough that the other passengers would have had to strain to overhear him, a courtesy that he expected Wayne to appreciate. 

Bruce tilted his head, noncommittal. “Do I know you?” he asked, which seemed rude. It’s not as if Jonathan was the one who wore a disguise to class.

“We have a course together,” Jonathan said patiently. “Dr. Bramowitz?”

“Hm,” Wayne said. He turned his head away, looking towards the window. This time the angle did not allow Jonathan a peek at his eyes.

This was going almost as boring as if Jonathan had just left a note. He swallowed a sigh, instead trying to smile excitedly. He was aware that enthusiastic expressions looked somewhat disturbing on his face, but in this situation he didn’t need to look appealing, just earnest. 

“I  _ thought  _ I recognized you,” he said. “From TV? Our classmates are going to be so excited to find out you’re in  _ our _ class.” 

“Well, don’t get them too excited,” Bruce said. “I’m planning on dropping it.”

That was anticlimactic. Jonathan had been anticipating having to work a little to reach his goal. He was somewhat put out to discover his input was too late to have an influence. 

“Why?” he asked, this time a genuine question. “Is the material too much for you?”

Infuriatingly, Bruce responded by shrugging.

“I think most people find that having taken a course’s prerequisites prepares them more adequately for the class,” Jonathan said. “Of course, most people aren’t able to skip the prerequisites on a whim.”

“I wasn’t interested in the prerequisites,” Bruce said. “This is the only course Bramowitz is teaching this year that overlaps with his primary research interest.”

Jonathan recalled earlier that day, when Bruce had insisted to their professor that fear is the emotion that triggers the fastest response in those who witness it. Jonathan agreed, deep in his core, even if the research hadn’t pointed to that conclusively. It couldn’t, really; it was difficult to study fear objectively in academic studies, given the constraints that institutional review boards placed on human research. 

“You find Bramowitz’s insight disappointing,” Jonathan realized.

Bruce shrugged again. “He seems to be better at elucidating on paper than in person.”

Jonathan opened his mouth to defend his professor... then immediately closed it. What was he doing? This was what he wanted. Attempting to convince him of the course’s value was counterproductive. He  _ wanted  _ Wayne to quit.

They sat there in silence for a while. Jonathan debated moving to another section of the bus, since his purpose had technically been fulfilled. It had been a long time since he’d sat this close to another human being, and Bruce’s proximity was starting to make him uncomfortable.

“When did you move here?”

Jonathan glanced back over to Bruce, who was now looking at him directly. “What?” Jonathan asked, irritably. 

“Your accent,” Bruce said. “It’s subdued, so it must not have been recently. I can’t tell what state you’re from. Alabama?” 

“Georgia,” Jonathan corrected him, much to his immediate regret. He hadn’t realized his accent was still so obvious; hiding it was something he’d started working on as soon as he’d realized that his professors and classmates were taking him less seriously because of it.

He realized that Bruce was still staring at him expectantly, presumably because Jonathan hadn’t actually answered his question.

“I moved up north for undergrad, five years ago,” Jonathan said eventually. He was hyper aware of every word he spoke, a discomfort he hadn’t experienced since his last sophomore year. “I came to Gotham specifically the September before last.”

Bruce nodded, and Jonathan once again considered getting up to move. The bus had passed into downtown Gotham proper, but Jonathan would have to stay on it until it circled back to campus. He had no way of telling how much longer he had until Bruce got off. 

“How are you liking it?”

Jonathan realized that Bruce was still staring at him.  _ Now  _ he had his attention?

“Liking what?” Jonathan snapped. His fingers tightened around the sides of his bag, almost more embarrassed than annoyed that this was the second time he’d had to ask for clarification. He was finding himself increasingly distracted.

“Gotham,” Bruce said. “I don’t talk to transplants very often.”

“It’s fine,” Jonathan said, glancing out the bus window at the city in question.

Bruce made a deep noise in the back of his throat, drawing Jonathan’s attention back against his better judgement. Bruce was grinning now, a thus far unprecedented development. Jonathan flushed when he realized that Wayne had been laughing at him.

“What?” he demanded.

“I’ve just... never heard anyone say Gotham is ‘fine’ before,” Bruce said, still smiling. “Even the people who love it are usually just proud they can endure its horribleness. Or they love a past ideal of Gotham and resent the present reality for disappointing them.”

“Well, I haven’t exactly lived here long enough to reminisce,” Jonathan said. “Or to feel pride in my endurance. I just like it more than other places I’ve lived.”

“That’s quite a damning condemnation of Georgia,” Bruce said. “I take it I shouldn’t invest in any vacation homes there?”

“I doubt anyone has ever built a vacation home in Gordon County,” Jonathan said. “I couldn’t make any recommendations one way or the other for the rest of the state.” 

He waited for Bruce to reply, but no response was forthcoming. His body language was still directed towards Jonathan, however, implying that he didn’t consider the conversation to be over. 

“When’s your stop?” Jonathan asked. As questions went, it was pretty transparent. But that was about how Jonathan was feeling at this point in the conversation, so it felt rhetorically justified.

“Oh,” Bruce said. “I don’t have one.”

His smile was a winning combination of ‘isn’t that funny?’ and ‘I hope you didn’t think you were being subtle.’ Looking at it, Jonathan felt his self-conscious anxiety melt away, replaced by a much more immediate sense of panic. The sensation had a vague similarity to the full body jerk of realizing that you’re falling in a dream. There was a starkness to it that Jonathan appreciated. He certainly wasn’t feeling distracted anymore. 

“Are you actually dropping Dr. Bramowitz’s class?” Jonathan asked. 

“I am now,” Bruce said. “Bramowitz really hasn’t been compelling enough to justify bribing you into keeping your mouth shut.”

There was a contradiction there, somewhere. 

“If you don’t care enough to bribe me,” Jonathan asked carefully, “then why are we here having a conversation?”

“I was curious,” Bruce said.

Jonathan waited for elaboration. It was not forthcoming. 

“There have to be less transparent ways to manipulate someone,” Jonathan said. 

“I’m not trying to manipulate you,” Bruce said. He paused. “Why. Did you have something specific in mind?” 

“I’ve heard the traditional course for a Gotham family of your stature has something to do with kneecaps and baseball bats,” Jonathan said. He was dimly aware that his palms had started to sweat into the fabric of his bag.

“Hmm,” Bruce said. “I could buy you coffee?”

Jonathan considered.

. . . .

“Large pumpkin spice latte,” Jonathan said. “Almond milk, two pumps of cinnamon dolce syrup, one extra shot of espresso.” 

The barista glanced up from the register. “Do you want whipped—”

“Cold foam.”

“...Okay,” the barista said, turning to Bruce. “And you?”

“Darjeeling, medium, no cream or sugar,” Bruce said, pulling a fifty out of his wallet. “Thank you.” 

The barista returned his smile. When he dropped his change in the tip jar without looking at the amount, her grin grew even wider.

Jonathan could feel Bruce staring at him as they walked over to the pick-up counter. He turned to see the younger man raising a single manicured eyebrow at him. 

“What?” Jonathan protested.

“There was very little coffee in your coffee,” Bruce said.

“There was very little coffee in your tea,” Jonathan replied. “I just thought that ‘billionaire picking up the tab’ made for a rare opportunity to not order off the starving grad student menu.”

“You do look like you do most of your ordering off the starving grad student menu,” Bruce noted, glancing up and down Jonathan’s thin frame.

“Thank you,” Jonathan said dryly. “So, you got on the bus because...?”

“I wanted to see if you’d follow me,” Bruce said. “You seemed quite dedicated to doing so.”

Jonathan felt himself flush, despite his best efforts to the contrary. He’d never had someone realize he was following them before. He wondered at what point Bruce had spotted him.

He kept his embarrassment out of his voice when he spoke. “And you aren’t angry about that fact.”

Bruce shrugged. “My butler has long informed me that I have a tendency towards hypocrisy,” he said, “but I don’t think it’s quite as blatant as that.”

Jonathan frowned. “I’m... sorry?”

“It’s not like you knew who I was before you started following me,” Bruce said, not bothering to clarify his previous statement. “Which is almost refreshing, when you think about it.”

“I’m trying not to,” Jonathan said. A second barista placed his drink down on the counter, and he picked it up to take an experimental sip.

“Well?” Bruce asked, watching as he drank.

“There’s not very much coffee in this coffee,” Jonathan observed, setting it back down.

“I can get you something different,” Bruce offered. 

Jonathan grabbed a lid from the to-go station. “No need,” he said. “I’m enjoying it.” 

Bruce mouthed another thank you to the barista who brought him his tea. “Have you been enjoying Dr. Bramowitz?” he asked, gesturing towards the stairs.

Jonathan followed him up, eventually reaching the second floor of the building. Bruce led them to a table near the floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the street below. The white walls and the light from the outside illuminated the store in a way Jonathan didn’t traditionally associate with coffee shops. The spot he normally went to in between classes barely had any lighting at all, which conveniently hid the dust that covered all the wall decorations and well-used furniture. This place looked like it was vacuumed nightly, which Jonathan found unsettling in a casual dining environment.

“Not as much as I was expecting to,” Jonathan said as he sat down.

“How so?”

“Well, you see, there’s this imbecile who keeps distracting him whenever he starts to talk about something interesting,” Jonathan said, staring at Bruce over the lid of his coffee as he drank.

Bruce removed his sunglasses, tucking them into his jacket pocket. “Maybe the ‘imbecile’ is tired of Bramowitz never actually committing to talking about interesting somethings,” he said. “The man literally wrote the book on human fear response, but he never brings it up in class unless I force him to.”

“Yes, that is exactly the lack of patience I would expect from someone who skipped dozens of prerequisites,” Jonathan said. “He’s teaching a class on the entire field of cognitive neuroscience, not just  _ his  _ research. The material he’s assigning does cover his main topic of interest, but if you want to debate him over ancillary theories, do it during his office hours.” He frowned. “Especially given that every time Bramowitz has to call on you in class, it wrecks his concentration for at least the next fifteen minutes.”

Bruce scoffed. “If he’s that poor at debate during class, I can’t imagine I’d find it valuable to attend his office hours.”

“Hmm,” Jonathan said.

“Hmm?” Bruce echoed, taking a sip of his tea. 

Jonathan set down his drink. “Do you know why I was following you today?” 

“How would I know that?” Bruce asked, looking amused. “I’m rich, not psychic.”

“You knew that I didn’t know who you were when I  _ started  _ following you,” Jonathan pointed out.

“That was just a guess as to why you would break into my gym locker without taking anything,” Bruce said. “I didn’t know for sure until you didn’t contradict me. My second leading theory was that you wanted a look at my notes for Managerial Finance.” 

So he thought he was some kind of detective. That was going to be irritating, Jonathan could tell.

“Bramowitz is afraid of you,” Jonathan said. “I didn’t understand why, until I realized who you were.” He scratched at the side of his cup with a thin finger. “I suppose it might be more accurate to say that he’s afraid of his superiors, who would probably offer his liver up on a silver platter if they thought it would appease you. You’ve already demonstrated the influence of your family name by forcing yourself into his class, and presumably by demanding he not share your identity with the other students.”

Bruce didn’t respond, just narrowed his eyes. The effect was genuinely unsettling. Jonathan found himself questioning the sanity of the women he’d heard waxing poetic about Bruce Wayne’s ‘baby blues.’ Their pale, watery coloration had far more in common with hoar frost and hospital gowns than with any more pleasant point of comparison. 

“You remind him of this fear every time you force him to call on you in class,” Jonathan continued casually, though the hair on the back of his neck was definitely standing up. “Which is constantly. Your intimidation detracts from his teaching. Which, I should add, detracts from  _ my  _ learning.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Well,” Bruce said. “I guess its a good thing I’m dropping the course, then.”

It was. Objectively speaking. 

“Why did you take it in the first place?” Jonathan found himself asking. “I can’t imagine cognitive neuroscience comes up often when you’re withdrawing from your trust fund. Or in whatever self-congratulating leadership position at Wayne Enterprises you’ll inherit alongside your company shares.”

“Would you believe that I’m a strong proponent of liberal arts education?” Bruce asked.

“I imagine you’d have to be, given how many of the buildings in the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences have your family name on them,” Jonathan said. “But most business majors manage to fulfill their general education requirements without taking graduate level psychology courses.”

Bruce sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I ran across a paper of his a few years ago. It had some relation to our class discussion today, actually.”

“Adaptive responses to whole body expressions of emotion,” Jonathan recalled. “Given that we’re discussing Bramowitz, I assume the emotion here is ‘fear’ specifically.”

“Right,” Bruce said. “It was about perception of fearful facial expressions in both criminal and non-criminal psychopaths. Have you read it?”

“I have,” Jonathan said, templing his fingers. “It used a bifactorial construct for psychopathy. Not universally accepted in the field. The test they used to determine psychopathy replaced questions about criminal behavior with antisocial behavior in general, so it could cram in psychopaths who don’t have criminal records.”

“Bramowitz was borrowing from Hare,” Bruce said. “He viewed poor behavioral controls as a necessary component of the psychopathy construct, criminal or otherwise. Not all physical and verbal abuse is illegal. And even when they are illegal, it’s not a guarantee that their perpetrators will have criminal records.” He paused to sip his tea. “Yet.”

“Cleckley would argue that the true psychopath is a superficially charming, insincere individual who doesn't feel guilt when manipulating others,” Jonathan said. “No criminal actions necessary. But that’s difficult to test, isn’t it? There’s no greater response bias than in asking a liar if they lie.”

Bruce looked particularly annoyed by this line of questioning. For a moment Jonathan hoped that he would argue, but unfortunately the Wayne brushed past the topic entirely.

“Anyway,” Bruce said. “The study concluded not only that criminal and non-criminal psychopaths—”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “To the bare extent that it was capable of differentiating them.”

Bruce continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “—were both less able than non-psychopaths to detect and distinguish expressions of fear, but that response inhibition deficits in general were likely to be present in  _ all _ criminal groups, psychopaths or no.”

“Yes, that would be what happens when your main indicator of psychopathy is criminality,” Jonathan said. “If you’re just testing for antisocial behavior, your results will find commonalities in all groups who break acceptable social conduct.”

“But that’s exactly why the article stuck out to me,” Bruce said. “It was generalizable.”

Jonathan tilted his head. “To criminals.”

“My father always said that criminals were a superstitious, cowardly lot,” Bruce said. “It’s something I thought about a lot, growing up.” 

“Superstitious, probably,” Jonathan said. “Especially in Gotham.” He laughed. “Did you know that people here think there’s a secret society of bird people ruling the city from the shadows?”

“Yes,” Bruce said. “The article confused me, because my previous research indicated that the easiest way to cause mass panic is through a few people’s fear responses spreading through an entire crowd.”

“Human adaptive instinct,” Jonathan agreed. “If the person next to you is afraid, you should probably be afraid too.”

“But adaptive responses rely on recognizing emotion in others,” Bruce said. “So if you have a group of people who are all deficient in detecting fear...”

“Then scaring one would not necessarily scare them all,” Jonathan concluded. “Interesting. Unfortunate for them, I suppose.”

_ “Unfortunate?”  _ Bruce repeated, surprised. “I was thinking the opposite.”

Jonathan shook his head. “Only if you’re thinking of fear as inherently negative,” he said. “Fear is good for us, Bruce. When one person’s fear response spreads through a crowd, it almost immediately primes the whole group for danger. But if the whole group is resistant to adapting another’s fear as their own, it delays that survival instinct considerably.”

“It takes them longer to realize they’re in danger,” Bruce said. His tone was colored with a kind of dawning realization, which Jonathan couldn’t help but feel gratified by. It was rare that anyone listened to him long enough to learn anything. “Interesting.”

“I certainly think so,” Jonathan said. “I believe Dr. Bramowitz would have similarly interesting insights, if he didn’t find speaking to you so intimidating.”

Bruce nodded, considering. Then he glanced back up at Jonathan. “Does that mean you  _ don’t _ find me intimidating?” he asked. “I assumed you did, given the way you started sweating on the bus.”

Jonathan pulled his arms closer into his body as surreptitiously as possible. “I have a somewhat abnormal relationship with fear,” he said, as vaguely as possible.

“I can tell,” Bruce said. His brow furrowed. “Wait a second. So, you followed me from class because... I intimidate the professor and you wanted to force me to drop out?”

Was he just getting angry about this now? “More or less,” Jonathan said, his grip tightening around his coffee cup. 

To his surprise, Bruce laughed. “I’m not laughing at _ you,” _ he said quickly, noticing Jonathan’s disgruntled expression. “I’m laughing at me. That’s just very different from what I assumed was your motivation.”

Jonathan’s scowl lightened into a frown. “If I didn’t know you were rich, what other possible reason could I have had for following you?”

Bruce stared at him expectantly. “To the gym?” he prompted. “Where you watched me work out for almost two full hours?”

Jonathan thought about it.

“Oh,” he said.

“Yes,” Bruce said. “There was a certain novelty to the idea that I could attract a stalker who didn’t know about the family fortune. Kind of a blow to my ego, but I’m sure the tabloids will flatter me back to normal in no time. Besides, this conversation ended up being far more interesting than I expected.”

Given what Jonathan knew of Bruce Wayne’s reputation, his high opinion of himself in this regard wasn’t entirely unfounded. But that didn’t make Jonathan any less confused. “You thought  _ I  _ was attracted to you, and your reaction was to...”

“Buy you coffee?” Bruce finished for him. “This  _ is  _ Gotham City. We’re not exactly in Gordon County, Georgia.”

“I suppose we’re not,” Jonathan said. His head was still spinning slightly. 

Bruce stood up, to Jonathan’s surprised dismay. “I have to go,” he said. “My Marketing Ethics class is starting, and I prefer to be about fifteen minutes late for that. I assume you’ll be fine taking a bus back to campus?”

Jonathan followed Bruce’s gaze out the window, where a sleek black car had pulled up to the sidewalk outside the shop.

“Yes,” Jonathan said. “I imagine I’ve taken far more bus rides than you have.”

“Today was my first, actually,” Bruce said, sounding pleased with himself. “Well, it was nice to meet you, mister...?”

It took Jonathan a moment to realize that Bruce was asking for his name. It seemed impossible that they had talked for so long without it coming up. It seemed even more impossible that someone as disturbingly observant as Bruce Wayne had not learned it over the several weeks that they’d been in class together. It occurred to Jonathan that this might be a misguided attempt at being polite.

“Jonathan Crane,” he said.

Bruce reached out a hand, and Jonathan shook it, dubiously. Bruce’s grip was deceptively light, given the obvious strength in his arms.

“Jonathan,” Bruce echoed. “Well. It’s been a pleasure.”

Despite his better instincts, Jonathan found himself agreeing. Their prolonged conversation had been the most interesting that he’d experienced in a while. Although, it had also been the only prolonged conversation he’d experienced in a while, so that might have been affecting his judgement.

He realized that Bruce had already made his way to the stairs leading down to the first floor. “Wait!” he said, already regretting what he was about to say.

Bruce paused, glancing backwards. “Yes?” 

“You shouldn’t drop out of Bramowitz’s class,” Jonathan said.

“Shouldn’t I?” Bruce asked. He pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket, once again hiding the upper half of his face from the general public.

“You clearly have more passion for the subject than most of my actual peers,” Jonathan said reluctantly. “It would be unfortunate if you were prevented from furthering your education in psychology, just because I found you irritating enough to uncover your identity.”

Whatever his reaction to Jonathan’s statement was, Bruce did not bother to physicalize it as a facial expression. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he said after a pause.

Jonathan watched him walk away, trying to swallow down his annoyance at the ambiguous response. He had no intention of spending the rest of his week wondering whether or not Bruce Wayne would be at their next class. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The main articles I used as a reference to write this chapter are: 
> 
> Tamsin Higgs, Ruth J. Tully, and Kevin D. Browne. "Psychometric Properties in Forensic Application of the Screening Version of the Psychopathy Checklist." International Journal of Offender Therapy and Comparative Criminology, Vol. 62, Issue 7 (2018).  
> Catarina Iriaa and Fernando Barbosa. "Perception of facial expressions of fear: comparative research with criminal and non-criminal psychopaths." The Journal of Forensic Psychiatry and Psychology, Vol. 20, Issue 1 (2009).


End file.
